Heir
by Destined for Johnlock
Summary: Sebastian Moran thinks all is well after Sherlock Holmes falls to his death, so he proceeds to go about his day, only to have it turn around on him in the worst possible way. Mormor request by cocainedollhouse on Tumblr set to the song I Gave You All by Mumford and Sons. TW: Implied contemplated suicide. Just one reference, but a trigger is a trigger. Proceed with caution.


AN: Mormor set to the song "I Gave You All" by Mumford and Sons. A one-shot request from Tumblr.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or anything related to them. All characters belong to BBC and/or Sir Author Conan Doyle.

* * *

The first thing that alerted him was the lack of response to the texts.

Sebastian Moran had held his position in an abandoned building nearby, scope focused on John's head as he was instructed, and waited out the desired end. A confirmation in the form of a cackling radio in his ear followed by a gruff, "Holmes down, pack it up" had him taking apart the pieces of his gun to store in the bag by his side. The clicks echoed in the stairwell and he smirked, eyes darting toward the scene of the crime. He looked back up at the roof – "You are not to watch what happens. Just don't let Watson out of your sight." – to look for Jim Moriarty. There were no figures moving about that he could see. Jim had probably made a quick and stealthy escape.

Moran packed up, hoisted himself to his feet, and bounded down the stairs, sliding on the last banister and landing on the floor with a loud _thump_. He whistled a tune as he shoved the metal doors open, the sound of sirens wailing through the streets a welcomed one. Sherlock Holmes was dead, now Jim would stop fixating on him and pay more attention to Sebastian. Their relationship with one another was … well, it was interesting to say the least. It wasn't love, at least that's what Jim kept insisting. It was, instead, "a mutual fascination with each other's intellect, physicality, and personal lives."

_"So it's love, then."_

_"No, Sebastian. It is _not _love. Now stop prattling on about this and go kill someone."_

_"Yes, boss."_

A smirk curled on Sebastian's lips when the memory bubbled up to the surface of his mind. He whipped out his phone and checked the time: 3:24 PM. Perfect timing. A new message was opened, addressed to Jim, and typed out in no time.

**Brilliant job, boss. Rendezvous in twenty, as planned? See you soon. SM**

**You there, Jim? SM**

**I guess I'll see you soon. SM**

The second thing that should have tipped him off was being stood up.

They had agreed to meet in a secluded location, one where various lower level 'henchmen,' as Jim endearingly called them, gathered for the simpler jobs in London. They were usually petty theft or arson, anything to keep the Yard busy and out of Jim's way. Sebastian waited for a good hour before giving in. It wouldn't be the first time plans were changed on him. Calling him was probably a bad idea as Jim much preferred to text. So Sebastian caught a cab. He'd meet up at their flat if nothing else.

When he texted the other members involved in the fall, they all sent back the same thing.

**No word yet. Maybe he's meeting with another client. YT**

**Nah, hasn't told me anything. Just to pack up and go home. WK**

**Shit, you think he would trust me to know his whereabouts? IS**

It was worrying, but if nothing else, Sebastian knew that Jim probably just had another trick up his sleeve, another game to play with someone new. A tinge of jealousy colored his face red, but he quickly pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. There was nothing to be jealous of, except how little time he got to spend with Jim.

The third thing that should've, and did, set off red flags was eerie silence at the flat.

Sebastian unlocked the door with a loud _click_, walked inside, greeted by the give and take of the floor beneath his boots, and set his bag down to the side, pocketing his keys and locking the door back.

"'M back, boss," he called out, shucking his jacket off his shoulders and hanging it on the coatrack just inside. When there wasn't a response, he tried again.

"_Tiger's home_, Sir." A few beats later and still nothing. He walked through the sitting area, then the kitchen, and checked back in Jim's room. It was clean, pristine and neat as always. There wasn't a sign that anyone had been there since the morning.

So he checked his room. With a sly smile, he slinked down the hall and swung his door open, saying, "Oh, _Jaaames_, where aaare yo—"

He was cut short at the sight of his room. It, also, was undisturbed, the sheets and pillows from the night before a tousled mess. Visions of his night with Jim danced around his head. Those, too, were disrupted when his eyes caught sight of an envelope.

Cautiously, though he couldn't tell you why he was cautious, he walked to his bed and reached for the envelope. His nickname was scrawled on the front, "_Tiger_," in the exaggerated cursive Jim liked to reserve for special occasions, and he sat down on his bed. A feeling of dread clutched at his gut. Sebastian fumbled with the back flap, opening it at last and pulling out a single sheet of paper.

His heart dropped.

_"Should something go wrong, I'll be sure to leave you a little present."_

_"Jim, stop it."_

_"What? I'm just being practical."_

_"You'll be fine."_

_"If you say so, Tiger."_

With shaking hands, he unfolded the paper and read the contents:

_Tiger,_

_Look at you, with your rugged good looks and pouting lips. _

_Don't be sad now, Moran. There's lot of work to be done. Yes, you are the rightful heir to my throne. Too bad you won't look as good in a crown. Regardless, it's all yours. Everyone and everything of mine now lies in your hands. Spend all my money, give away all of my possessions, do whatever you see fit. I can't imagine you'll want much of me now that I'm not there._

_Don't give me that look. It was necessary. Otherwise I never would have gone through with it. Sherlock Holmes had to die. In order for that to happen, I had to die. I can assure you it didn't hurt. Nothing hurts anymore. _

_You take care of everything. Especially yourself, Sebastian._

_I'll see you many, many years from now.  
Jim_

With his heart crushed, his throat constricted, and his body racking with guilt, he spent the longest night of his life alone, with the faint smell of Jim on his sheets the only thing keeping him from joining him in death. Jim may had given him all of his possessions, but he had ripped away everything from Sebastian, had taken with him something he couldn't ever replace.

His heart.

His love.

Months later, word of Sherlock Holmes's attempts to destroy the web reached him shortly after it started getting out of hand.

Sebastian Moran packed the necessary things: his guns, weapons, fake cards, and the picture of Jim he kept by his bedside. He was on a private jet to Dubai as soon as he could manage.

Jim will not have died in vain. Sebastian would make sure of that.


End file.
